


Memoirs of Chun-Li

by Duress_To_Impress



Category: Street Fighter, Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun Li (2009)
Genre: F/F, Lesbian Character, Lesbian Character of Color, Lesbian Sex, POV Lesbian Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duress_To_Impress/pseuds/Duress_To_Impress
Summary: After the disappearance of her father, Chun-Li works her way up the ranks of INTERPOL in an attempt to find out what happened to him.
Relationships: Chun-Li/Cammy White
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Memoirs of Chun-Li

Back when I could, I would wake up every day and practice piano.

That was back when I lived in ‘The Cabin’, a chic little house in the middle of Forest of Dean district. I remember hating living in the woods, even when I found myself standing on the porch and gazing out at the rain. The place itself was as far-removed from its name as you could get, my father earning a considerable paycheck from his employers.  
He would be angry if he knew I saw it that way. INTERPOL paid him well, but no better than he did his job. He was a dedicated man, an immigrant from China who quickly rose up the ranks of the National Crime Agency. He liked to refer to himself as a detective, but I’m not certain that’s a title he was ever licensed or certified to give out. More than detective-work, he loved chasing people. I remember he would sit at his desk all night, working out connections on our big dinosaur of a computer with his broad shoulders all slumped forward. He was dedicated.

That was back when we lived in the Lake District, which was all rural, essentially. His commute down into London, especially Greater London, was a mess. It had him waking up in the early hours of the morning and getting back home past sundown. INTERPOL saved our lives, I think, giving him the opportunity to save up money and buy a big place like The Cabin in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t soon after that he started getting me piano lessons, I was about ten or eleven, and it turns out I had a great aptitude for the keys.

I still have my last poster somewhere, but since I’m in the middle of a move I don’t quite know where it ended up. A stark black background with my figure in my modest white dress, at the age of seventeen. Looking back on it for the millionth time, I imagine they were attempting to make me look like a geisha. I had my dark hair up in buns, I attempted to create that style because I wanted to be fashionable. It’s hard to want to be fashionable and to hate fashionable things, though. I hated the piano, and the posters, and the packed concert halls, and the acclaim of a father whose name and face were plastered across London newspapers after his latest big arrest.  
I could never hate him, especially not now, but I did have some difficulty finding my face in the shadow of his imposing history. I had been in the papers, but only to promote my concerts, or to be mocked for having gone out drinking with some friends. My arrests were legendary for how small they should have been. Stealing a Lion bar from the corner store and fighting the manager who called the cops was deemed particularly notable by every publication south of Wales.

I suppose I should take a moment and write about the thing that started this: the disappearance of Dorai Xiang, my father. You’ll be disappointed to learn that I know very little more now than I did then, though what I’ve been able to piece together has been worth its weight in gold.

We were coming back from London, making our way back to the Cabin with Dorai in the driver’s seat. This was one of only a few concerts my father would ever get to see e perform, and it was the last for both of us. He was scolding me for playing louder than usual that night, the rain on the windshield almost seemed like a joke. It was all so dramatic, it was as if I were being laughed at and mocked by something large and intangible, something which heard the way my father yelled at me about how foolish it would be to join INTERPOL and decided to laugh.  
I did play louder that night, clumsier than I had in a long time. My father had asked me why, and I explained to him that I was working with an agent he knew to deaden the nerves in my hands. I had been punching a tree outside The Cabin for hours on end, trying to become stronger than the bark, than the wood inside. I had been promised strength, but only now did I see that sometimes power comes at the cost of grace. I had been told all my life that men wanted a rose to hold between their teeth, but how would one fair with a rose hardened to stone by intensive training? Did I care?  
I remember snapping back at my father, talking about how I had never wanted to play piano, that the concerts and the money they brought in were like a sort of side-hustle on the long road to becoming an International Agent. I wanted to be a detective, like my father had claimed to be.

It was late, and it was ugly, so I’ll spare you the melodrama. It should have been a fight like any other, but we rarely had time to fight, and it was the last time I’ve seen my father in eighteen years. I went to my room and put on some loud music, since I had recently discovered punk. I thought maybe it would piss him off, but I think he probably listened to the same kinds of music when he was seventeen. I had a hard time humanizing him then, but don’t we all with our parents? If I had a mother, I think I would probably have cried to her about all this, but as it stands I still have a lot to work out.

Sadly, that’s where we encounter our first of many issues: we never resolved that fight. I never left the room in the hopes that maybe talking things out really was the answer. He never made his way up to my room to ask if I was alright. He was a man worried about his daughter’s well-being, watching something she had worked hard at fall apart in her shaking hands, and that’s where things ended for a long time.  
I encourage everyone reading this book to reach out to your loved-ones and take a moment to let them know that you love them. Hard times are, as I came to learn in the years after this incident, something you cannot always trust yourself to traverse alone. Sometimes, we act in ways which might seem foolish down the road. Sometimes we know that what we understand of the world is wrong, and there’s nothing we can do about it but put our lives on the line to learn the truth.

My father was gone the next morning, The Cabin was a mess. The police said that the break-in took place early in the morning. They had guessed that whoever had broken in must have known my father’s routine, since whoever kidnapped him was waiting for him when he got out of the shower. They said that this might mean whoever was attacking him understood his strength, that they feared him and wanted to get him at his most vulnerable.

I called the agent I had been working with before, a friend of my father’s who was helping me apply for a position within INTERPOL. Her name was Cammy White, and from that moment on she was my closest friend.


End file.
